


Death of a Bachelor

by anticipatewrites



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-12
Updated: 2018-11-12
Packaged: 2019-08-22 12:49:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16598225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anticipatewrites/pseuds/anticipatewrites
Summary: Dean’s night goes both right and horribly wrong.





	Death of a Bachelor

**Author's Note:**

> This was a song request for Panic! at the Disco’s Death of a Bachelor. Does not require actually listening to the song.

He was wearing his tuxedo. God, it's been years since he squeezed into this thing. It's uncomfortable and itchy, but necessary for the task at hand. Dean looks at himself in the mirror and adjusts the black bow tie. Chuckles a little remembering Bela’s offer so long ago when he'd worn it last. His laughter catching in his throat as he remembers her fate. Hellhounds ain't a pretty way to go out. Dean’s still not sure if she deserved that, fifteen grand in lottery tickets notwithstanding. 

The mirror in the less-than-five-star motel they were staying in reflected a much different picture than the one he had seen then. Leaning closer, he eyed himself critically. There were lines on his face that hadn't been there before. God, were those gray hairs at his temples? I mean, what did he expect, the life he'd led? He was surprised he didn't look like the crypt keeper by now. Still, Dean had always relied on his good looks and the image that he carried of himself in his head looked a whole lot more like twenty six and a whole lot less like pushing forty. Running his hands down his face, he sighed and exited the dingy bathroom. 

Sam, of course, was there to reinforce all of his worst fears. 

‘Dude, you look like a hungover Sean Connery. Like, League of Extraordinary Gentlemen Connery, not Untouchables Connery.’

‘Fuck you, Sam. Do I look like this goddamn benefit is real high on my bucket list?’ he leaned against the cheap motel table where Sam was doing his research and stuck his hands in his pockets. ‘We're gettin’ old, Sammy. You ever wonder how much longer this shit is gonna last?’ He asked, gesturing dramatically at his upper body. 

‘What shit?’ Sam didn't look up from the laptop screen. 

‘Never mind,’ Dean tugged on the cummerbund resting snugly around his waist and sighed. ‘Why do I gotta be the one in the monkey suit?’

Sam looked up at his brother, the expression on his face a mix of amusement and exasperation. 

‘All you gotta do is dance with her once, dude. Boost the stone, then you're outta there.’

‘Fuck. We're never playin’ that dumb ass game again,’ Dean said as he stomped out the door to his car. Hinges squealing, he got behind the steering wheel, willing this to be over before it had begun. 

The gala was extravagant. The old bat had spent a helluva lot of money on this poor excuse for a show of wealth. He hung around the back of the ballroom for a while before making his way to one of the small round tables clustered just off the dance floor. He ordered a whisky, neat, when the waiter came round, and was now nursing it in quiet contemplation. 

The big band up on stage was playing all the hits from the thirties, brass section in full swing. Glen Miller, Ella Fitzgerald, Duke Ellington, Louis Armstrong. Made Dean feel like he was somewhere outside of himself, time traveling again. He signaled at the waiter to keep ‘em coming. 

By the time he was draining his fifth glass, Dean had lapsed into something of an existential crisis verging on panic attack. He was staring at his hands, contemplating the things he had used them for. How long could this go on really? For forty years just one bloody mess after another. Feeling a lot like Moses wandering the desert, Dean scrubbed at his face. He remembered losing a hand of poker to a witch once, trying to win back years that Bobby had lost. Fuck, he was closer to that reality than he was to the sauntering youth that had ripped his brother away from a normal life at Stanford. Forty years of fucking shit up and letting people down. Images started flashing through his mind like the world's worst slide show. His brother's lifeless body stretched out on a table, the smell of fried chicken and death. A blue baseball cap with a bullet hole in it. A trench coat leaking pond water into his trunk. The white porcelain of a motel bathtub splashed with red, the bloody end of one of the only three women who had ever told him she loved him. 

He blearily looked at his own black clad shoulder and took in the strange hand that had come to rest there. Burgundy nails to match the lace dress of its owner. Taking in the stranger’s face as she held out her hand and asked him to dance, he felt like he had been thrown a lifeline. Pulled from his own personal hell, this time by the hand instead of the shoulder. Red lips smiling as she looked him up and down. 

Swirling around the parquet dance floor, they both knew where this was going. Dean could remember a time when something like this had been a normal occurrence. Hell, it had been his thing, part of his persona. When had he lost that part of himself? His cocky self-assuredness. Digging down deep, he couldn't find it anymore. Only an aching in the pit of his stomach that needed validation. The song ended and her beautifully manicured hands curled into the short hairs on the back of his neck as she pulled him close to whisper in his ear. 

It was quick and brutal, executed in the coat closet down the hallway. All smeared red lipstick and ripping lace, grunts muffled by the surrounding remnants of mink and rabbit and fox. Later, he wouldn't be able to recall her name or her face, just the way her hair smelled and the feel of her dress as he had gripped her hips with his guilty hands. 

Leaving that night, to the swinging melody of a dead man’s genius, Dean felt a little lighter. A little more like he had a hold on reality. Maybe it was the booze. Maybe it was the way that she had looked at him, hungry. But the poisonous thoughts that he had been drowning in receded. At least for a while. 

The soothing rumble of his constant companion aided in soothing his nerves. He ripped the now-hanging bow tie from his neck and held it out the open window, letting the wind take it as he roared back down the road to the motel where his brother was waiting for him. 

He fumbled a little getting the key into the lock and opening the door. Shedding tuxedo pieces as he passed by his brother, still sitting at the table, he only had eyes for the double bed by the window. Dean flopped, face first, onto the questionably-clean sheets. 

‘Did ya get it?’ Sam's question felt like a gnat buzzing in his head. ‘Dude,’ he felt himself being shaken. ‘Dean!’

Grunting, he rolled over, the crook of his elbow shielding his eyes from the too bright light. ‘Get what?’

‘The stone, Dean!’

Yup. He was getting too old for this shit.


End file.
